


Council

by Aspareme



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Queen in the North
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7109377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aspareme/pseuds/Aspareme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The North rises again after the hungry winter, and the Stark in Winterfell has learned her lessons well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Council

**Author's Note:**

> This work is based off a wonderful gifset that lamented the absence of the Northern girls in the show. 
> 
> As ever, I own nothing about this and make no money off of it. All the characters mentioned therein are credited to their owner, GRR Martin. Please don't sue me, I'm just borrowing your toy.

 

* * *

 _There is entirely too much tut-tutting in this realm,_ _if you ask me. All these kings would do a deal better if they put down their swords and listened to their mothers._

_-Olenna Tyrell_

* * *

 

Winter had come and gone, leaving behind it a Spring with dragons roosting in the Red Keep and a tentative peace in the North, brokered by two young women who claimed to know only a little of war. 

 

They had known enough to be certain they did not want another.

 

The last time a Targaryen had harried a Stark girl, the Targaryen had fallen in bloody battle. The last time a Targaryen had ridden a dragon, the Stark in Winterfell had knelt. 

 

Sansa was not too proud to kneel, and Danaerys was not foolish enough to test the North’s resolve, and so a peace had been brokered based on mutual battle-weariness. To settle the dispute, Arya had volunteered to serve in King’s Landing as the young Queen’s Mistress of Whispers. Some whispered she might be mistress in deed as well as in word, but if there was any truth to it, Sansa had yet to hear it from the source. 

 

North of the Neck, Winter had killed some men, the Others many more. The North had been decimated and Northern lords were hesitant in sending their sons away to serve the Stark in Winterfell. They claimed they were needed as heirs; many of the Lords had lost their firstborns in the war. Sansa doubted it, but their recalcitrance had not bothered her in the slightest. 

 

It was not their sons she had sought. It was their daughters. 

 

And so here they sat beside her, women different as the seasons, each Northern as the snows. 

 

Lady Reed sat to her right, a steady presence in her sensible wool and leather. Meera had returned Brandon to Winterfell and had remained at his side—and Sansa’s—ever since. She had fought the Others, killed Wights with a skill that had impressed all who saw it. Experienced in navigating the North and its terrain, she had proven to be a capable strategist. She had experience with the greendreams, and she and her brother had helped Bran learn to harness his ability to warg, though Sansa could not claim to know how. Sansa was grateful for her assistance nevertheless, and nurtured a quiet hope that perhaps she would one day call her kin, as well as confidante. 

 

To Sansa’s left, quiet as a crypt, sat Jeyne Poole.

The hungry winter had been unkind to her childhood friend, and the Boltons crueller still. Sansa had thought her dead, until news had come of Arya Stark’s reappearance in the far North, bride to the Bastard of Bolton. 

 

Sansa had not wanted to believe it, had prayed for it not to be so, and indeed, it had not been Arya sent like a lamb to slaughter. 

 

It had been Jeyne. It had been Jeyne who had opened the Hunter’s Gate. It had been she who let the Starks in, and she who had watched with a flat gaze as Nymeria’s wolves had savaged Ramsey Bolton. 

 

She had stared, unflinching, until his screaming had ceased. 

 

Sansa had asked her once what had happened since the Lannister’s attack, curiosity getting the better of her. Jeyne had simply stared at her, silent and unyielding, until Sansa had been obliged to murmur an apology. She had not asked again, though the servants said Jeyne Poole still barred her doors when she retired at night and was prone to bathing in the Godswood until her skin near blistered from the heat.

 

Sansa remembered the way Littlefinger’s kisses had made her skin crawl, and had given word that Lady Poole was to be unmolested in her nocturnal wanderings.

 

For all her quirks, Jeyne was skilled at navigating the intrigues of court. Forged by necessity into an astute judge of character, she had the effectiveness of a sharp blade tucked away out of sight in Sansa’s pocket. Retiring and easily overlooked, Jeyne saw everyone and everything, and recounted it to Sansa with emotionless objectivity. Sansa was careful to always burn her little missives after committing them to memory. No matter how long she had been in Winterfell, Jeyne had not yet spoken, and Sansa did not expect that to change. 

 

Wylla Manderly, on the other hand, had accepted the invitation with alacrity, causing a small scandal at Winterfell with her green hair and outspoken ways. Seated next to Meera, the Manderly girl was Jeyne’s antithesis: gregarious and never louder than when expounding at length on the greatness of the renewed North. 

 

Davos Seaworth had told Sansa of the Manderly’s loyalty, and she had of course heard of the Frey pies. When she had inquired, Jeyne had found that it was Wylla’s idea. When questioned, Wylla had not disagreed, instead only smiling that siren’s smile and shrugging a shoulder. 

 

 _We ate them cold_ , she’d told Sansa with a laugh, _and honestly, Sansa, they weren’t half bad._

 

The mermaid had ice water in her veins, Sansa supposed, and the siren was a deadly creature. She needed deadly creatures in her retinue now, and had cultivated the green-haired girl into an ally to admire. 

 

During his tutelage in the Eyrie, Peter Baelish had taught her the value of foreknowledge. _A wise prince must never take things easy in times of peace_ , he had told her, _but rather use the latter assiduously, in order to be able to reap the profit in times of adversity._ Sansa had despised him unreservedly, but she could not discount the accuracy of his words. Wylla Manderly had proven to be her Lord grandfather’s apt pupil; curating goodwill amongst the Lords who remembered her defence of the Starks, and husbanding dragons like a Targaryen's stable master. 

 

Baelish had had that gift as well, Sansa remembered; he could rub two gold dragons together and hatch a third. Under Lady Manderly’s watchful eyes, the North’s coffers multiplied and Sansa stocked it all away like a squirrel.

 

Lady Karstark shifted impatiently in her seat, drawing Sansa's attention suddenly. If Meera was watchful and Jeyne reserved, Alys Karstark was as calculated as a game of cyvasse. She watched the world through eyes calm as a wolf’s, and her smile was sweet as poisoned wine. Sansa knew that her brother had executed Lord Karstark for insubordination, and Alys did as well. While Meera was a confidante, Wylla a compatriot and Jeyne a quiet companion, Alys was Sansa’s foil. If Sansa said yes, Alys said no. If Sansa suggested a course of action, Alys questioned her. 

 

It had been incessant, the constant challenges bordering on insubordination until finally, Sansa had lost her temper and summoned Alys to her solar. The two had stared at each other in silence for a moment. 

 

“Are you unhappy here”, Sansa had asked bluntly, and Alys had offered her a flat look in return. “No”, she had answered, and Sansa had struggled to maintain her composure. “You contradict me”, she had responded, and Alys had snorted a breath through her nose. “You are surrounded by sycophants”, she had returned with frost in her tone. “Surrounded by people who will not challenge you for fear of your name, your man or your title.” Alys had gone grim, then, eyes flat as flint. “Your brother executed my father because your mother and he disagreed. You could kill me too, if you like”, she had added, “but you’d be smarter to keep me, and heed me.” 

 

“And why should I do that?” Sansa could still remember Alys’ laughter, soft and steady, “Because we are kin”, she had murmured, stepping into Sansa’s space deliberately, lips nearly pressed to her ear, “Because my challenges force you consider all the pieces on the board. Because every ruler must know they too are fallible and because I say the things that needs must be said, even if you would rather not hear them.” 

 

She had stepped back, curtseying. “Because if only your Lord Brother had listened, then we all might not carry this burden.” 

 

And so it had been done; Alys Karstark had chosen to be feared rather than loved, and Sansa had allowed it. 

 

She had learned from her brother’s mistakes. 

 

 

 

If Alys Karstark had chosen to be feared, little Lyanna Mormont had instead become adored. 

 

The Mormonts had ever been Stark loyalists, despite Jorah Mormont’s crimes. Fierce as the she-bears they were reputed to be, the Mormont women had fought alongside their liege lord; the eldest, Dacey, had even fallen at the Red Wedding with her King. 

 

The youngest now served Sansa. 

 

Sweet as spring, little Lyanna had grown beautiful as a wildflower and just as untamed. Whether in her court dresses or the split-skirted kirtle that Sansa had gifted her with, the little bear was a breath of fresh air in the battle-scorched walls of Winterfell.

 

Her mother had taught her well all the same: she could sit a horse easily, confident as her namesake. For her sixteenth name-day, Sansa had given her a black foal, the first to come out of the stables since before Sansa had gone south so many years ago. 

 

The foal had tried to bite Lyanna within a half hour of her receiving it, and while Sansa had wished to sink through the stable floor in embarrassment, Lyanna had cackled out a laugh and bitten the creature right back. From then, the two had been inseparable and after her maturity, Lyanna had been a frequent face on patrols. Despite being the daintiest of the Mormont girls, she was by far the most spirited, and had quickly made herself beloved of the men-at-arms, often joining them in their training. Fast and aggressive, she’d earned their respect and camaraderie, and Sansa had been well-pleased when the young girl had suggested training the women of the castle in self-defence. 

 

“After all”, she’d piped up in her sweet voice, “that’s what Bear Island women do. There’s no shame in a woman defending her home. If the men are away, who else is there to do it?” 

 

Sansa had been unable and, indeed, unwilling to contest her. Even Alys had nodded her assent to the plan, and her eyes had been impressed behind the cold steel of her consideration. Sansa had delegated the responsibility to Lyanna to see it done, and so it had been. Now the women of Winterfell, from the lowest scullery-maid to Sansa herself could fight, and Lyanna had drilled them with such delight that even the most conservative of the women had been eager to learn. 

 

As for Sansa herself, her strength had always laid in her courtesies, and so she stood now, fingertips resting lightly on the tabletop. Around her, the conversation stilled as five faces turned to look at her. 

 

“My ladies”, she murmured, tone measured, “I thank you for your counsel, and your candour. Let us begin.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you couldn't guess, the five girls are the North's Daughters--Small Council to the Warden of the North.


End file.
